The Rabbit Hole
by Us-And-Them
Summary: No one ever asked him if he wanted to play the savior. *Novelization of the first movie. Reloaded and Revolutions to follow.*
1. White Rabbit

**A/N: **As I've said, I know this idea has been done before, but I had to do my own version. This will basically follow Neo throughout the trilogy. None of the canon dialog or plot has been changed, and I've tried to keep all of the characters/events/etc. as consistent with the movies as possible. Most scenes, though, either start a little before or end a little after where they do in the movies, and I plan to write a number of scenes that I think could fill in time-gaps, so, in general, if you don't recognize it, it's mine. Everything else belongs to the Watchowskis.

(The lyrics in the beginning are from _Dissolved Girl_ by Massive Attack, the song playing on Neo's headphones when he first wakes up in front of the computer.)

* * *

_"It feels like I've been, I've been here before..."_

It's not morning. That's the sum of his first, half-conscious thought—it's not morning, and he's not in bed. He can see the computer flashing behind the wall of his eyelids. Goddamn. He really hadn't meant to fall asleep.

_"Well, you're not my savior, but I still don't go on..."_

The search is still running. If he opens his eyes to look, he'll see some fifty webpages flicking across the screen, a few shoddy photos of a silhouette with sunglasses, every mention on the web of "Morpheus" or "the Matrix"—upwards of a hundred articles on a man who, for all intents and purposes, may as well not exist. It's the same thing he's seen every day for the past month and a half. There's never anything new.

The screen stops flashing and he opens his eyes.

_"It feels like something that I've done before..."_

The desk comes into view in an unfocused blur—a keyboard and an array of disks and wires, shoved to the side so he could put his head down at some ungodly hour of the night before. He blinks a few times as his vision clears. The monitor is blank. He must have kicked the plug out, but—

—there are words—at the top—of the screen.

**Wake up, Neo...**

_"I could fake it, but I'd still want more..."_

Green font on a black display—the words evaporate and are replaced.

**The Matrix has you...**

"What...?"

The question comes involuntarily. _This is a dream—this has to be a dream._ He remembers the headphones he's wearing and pulls them off, wincing at a head-rush as he sits up. "What the hell...?"

He hits **ctrl-x** without thinking and the message disappears. The screen is still for a moment. He can feel his heart rate shoot several notches up when another line of text types itself in the space.

**Follow the white rabbit.**

"'Follow the white rabbit'?" He repeats it, half believing the display will confirm it if he asks. He hits **escape** twice—hard—nothing happens.

**Knock, knock, Neo.**

The door bangs in its frame and he jolts, barely catching his breath in time to remember that—impossibilities aside—a knock implies a person on the other side of the wall. He chokes for a moment, staring at it. The bolts are all in place. If he wanted to keep silent, he could—he ought to. No one could get in. No one even needs to know he's here. He toys with the idea a moment longer and decides.

"Who is it?" Curiosity always wins.

"It's Choi."

Neo halts, processing that. It's Choi. Not another hacker, not the feds, not anyone here to arrest him, or kill him—it's Choi. It's his perpetually stoned neighbor from down the hall, here to buy a program. _God—fucking—damn._

"Yeah..." He turns back to stare at a blank screen. The computer is off, and he pulls back, letting his voice drop a bar or two in volume, "Yeah..."

He cracks the door, leaving the chain lock in place—it's habit. Choi is not alone in the hall, and Neo takes a moment to observe the entourage he's collected. There are four of them in his line of sight. He can't help but wonder how it could possibly require four people to pick up a computer disk, but he lets that go, only giving Choi a bit of a look as he peers through the doorway.

"You're two hours late." And of course, Neo is well aware of the reason, even as he says it—Dujour is already hovering in the not-so-distant background. He's unsure if "girlfriend" is really the right way to describe her relationship to Choi, but it's somewhere in that vicinity—she's been hanging off his shoulder since they arrived.

"I know. It's her fault."

Neo sighs in his mind and lets this go as well, "You got the money?"

A wad of bills is produced unceremoniously and placed in Neo's hand. Choi shrugs, "Two grand."

"Hold on."

He shuts the door again before crossing the room, and pulls a book from a haphazard stack of shelves. _Simulacra & Simulation_—the majority of it is carved out—it makes for subtle storage. The final intact page begins the chapter on nihilism. He had thought he was being witty. He retrieves the disk and leaves the money in the book, opening the door fully as he hands over the program.

"Hallelujah. You're my savior, man. My own personal Jesus Christ."

Neo bypasses the comment, "You get caught using that..."

"I know, it's never happened. You don't exist."

He winces slightly—somehow that wasn't quite the turn of phrase he'd wanted to hear right now. His response comes out sounding about as derailed as he's feeling, and a bit more so than he'd have liked, "Right..."

Choi frowns, "Something wrong, man? You look a little whiter than usual."

"My computer...it..." He pauses and starts over, "You ever have that feeling...where you're not sure if you're awake or still dreaming?"

"Mm, all the time. It's called mescaline. It's the only way to fly."

Neo doesn't respond, unsure what temporary insanity had possessed him that he'd tried to explain this to Choi.

Unfortunately, Choi chooses to continue, "Hey. It just sounds to me like you need to unplug, man. You know, get some R and R?" He turns to the girl on his arm, "What d'you think, Dujour? Should we take him with us?"

Dujour scans him up and down and smirks, "Definitely." The smirk is a little unnerving.

Neo looks down at the carpet, meeting none of their eyes. He's heard this sort of offer from them before, and he can say, with complete certainty, that some "R and R" is not going to improve the situation.

"I can't...I have work tomorrow."

"C'mon, it'll be fun." She snuggles Choi's shoulder and scans him again, adding, "I promise."

Neo is more than ready to protest, and is debating exactly how to do so convincingly when he notes—for the first time—the tattoo on Dujour's left shoulder. He stops, any faith he had left in his sanity taking an abrupt nosedive. It's a white rabbit. It's a small, two-inch tattoo of a white rabbit.

He speaks without taking his eyes off it, not bothering to explain the change of heart, "Yeah, sure...I'll go."

Choi grins at him, "Great. You go get ready, do whatever it is you do, and we'll meet you there in two hours."

Neo nods numbly and shuts the door, redoing all the latches. His computer is on again. He rushes over and slides into the chair to see the monitor. The display is back to normal—the computer is doing exactly what it had been doing when he woke up.

It's running a search on "the Matrix."


	2. Fortune

**A/N: **As you'll probably notice, this scene isn't from the movie, but I always had a very vivid image of it being there, and I thought it'd be worth it to mention the "really good noodles" place at least once before he's freed. I'm not really satisfied with the way I wrote it, but I'm done editing for the night. Let me know what you think.

* * *

"Are you still working on that?"

Neo glances down at the bowl of noodles in front of him. It's nearly full, though the contents have been pushed around a bit. "No, you can take it."

The waiter nods and walks away with the dish, leaving Neo nothing to fidget with. It's eight o'clock—he has exactly half an hour to kill. After that, Choi and Dujour will undoubtedly find a way to obliterate the rest of his evening. At the moment he's just trying to waste some time. He suppresses a sigh and turns to stare out the window.

The sun has already set. All he can really see through the plate-glass are the lights—streetlights, storefronts, skyscrapers. There's a reason he always picks this table. He watches the cars pass by for a while and waits to wake up.

It's about time this whole day turned out to be a dream.

If nothing happens tonight—nothing unusual—nothing of consequence—he won't be disappointed. He won't be because he's told himself upwards of fifty times that nothing will. What happened this afternoon is begging to be written off to lack of sleep. There will be no one at the nightclub. He'll go, he'll wait for a while, stand off to the side, count the minutes, feel awkward. The whole thing will stretch out up to four hours or more. Towards the end, he'll start to wonder why he came at all. He'll regret it a bit and—eventually—he'll go home. It really is that simple. Tomorrow will be Monday, and he'll go to work.

And when he is disappointed, at least he'll have known it was coming.

It's been four years—longer if you're being technical. There are a hundred different starting points to count from. Ten years ago he preformed his first large-scale hack and began to genuinely consider himself a hacker—the kind who has to worry about the feds showing up one day with handcuffs. Some eight months later he really did start to worry. In a few days he had three locks on his apartment door. Seven years ago he gave birth to his current alias and became 'Neo' to the web—started collecting large sums of money for his programs. And there were earlier events, too. His first amateur hack went back to his college years. The bizarre nightmares he had—the reason for all of this—those went back to middle school. The last time he considered his life 'normal'—maybe fifth grade. The last time he was sure of his sanity—maybe sixth. From a certain perspective, his whole life was one long lead-in to some vague, amorphous _something_. Or to nothing.

But it wasn't always quite like this.

Setting all prelude aside, it was four years ago that he first heard the name 'Morpheus' somewhere in a chatroom—heard it in conjunction with the word 'Matrix,' and had it strike a nerve. It was the first time he had a single, concrete question he wanted answered—the first time he thought, for a while, he might get it answered.

That was the real beginning.

He can't exactly claim the dramatic stereotype of giving up his life to the search. He still goes to work, still attempts to pay his rent, still makes money selling programs to people like Choi, and he never had a social life to begin with. But he gave up—something. In a way, that something was his thoughts. He gave up the cubic inches inside his skull and let it take up residence there. Consciously or not, he let himself obsess.

Some nights he'll fall asleep at his computer instead of in bed. Some nights he doesn't sleep. Some days he'll go twenty-four hours without leaving the desk. Sometimes everything else just feels like sleepwalking. Sometimes that search is only thing that still feels like reality at all. And it's all gotten him nowhere.

It's been four years—and he doesn't know anything.

Neo turns away from the window just as the waiter returns with the bill, and a handful of fortune cookies are dropped onto the table with the receipt. It's now 8:10, so says the restaurant clock, only twenty minutes left. It feels a bit longer than it should.

He cracks open a cookie and pulls some money out of his wallet, ignoring the little fortune until he's paid. It's only as an afterthought that he picks it up again. It's unremarkable—red lettering on white paper, two lines of 'infinite wisdom' on the front, a shoddy Chinese translation on the back.

**Be on the lookout for major changes in your life. Many questions will soon be resolved.**

**Your lucky numbers are: 1, 12, 6, 31, 11, 5**

He reads it a second time, smirking a little at the irony. It's just mocking him now. He tears it in half and casts it onto the tabletop, muttering a halfhearted "piece of shit," before turning to go.

It's raining out on the street. All the lights have smeared together like a bad watercolor painting, or a dream. The waiter nods goodbye as he picks up his coat. Five seconds pass.

He grabs the two shreds of paper and shoves them in his pocket as he walks out the door.


	3. Nightclub

**A/N: **Third chapter up : ).

* * *

_"Dead I am the one, exterminating son, slipping through the trees, strangling the breeze..."_

Neo leans his head against the wall, pushing the strobe lights out to the sides of his peripheral vision. The crowd is pulsating. There's a butchered Rob Zombie song throbbing from five speakers and the lyrics are lost to the backbeat. He's been standing there a while—off to the side—out of the way. He can't help but note the headache forming vaguely in the back of his mind. There's a reason he never comes to parties.

He scans the crowd again and looks down.

_"Dead I am the sky, watching angels cry, while they slowly turn, conquering the worm..."_

He showed up more or less early, got hailed over by Choi—(_Hey ya, Tommy-boy!)—_and headed to the back. God only knows what he and the others are doing by this point. He doesn't particularly care—he's made a point of leaving them alone. Two and a half hours of this and his cynicism has more than started to kick in: this is the most "social" thing he's done in months—and it's a bondage-club frequented by his illegal buyers.

That says something. But it isn't especially surprising—his social skills are a bit sub-par. Even conversation gets to be painfully awkward outside the realm of his hacking deals.

There's _more_ than one reason he never comes to parties.

_"Dig through the ditches, and burn through the witches, and slam in the back of my dragula..."_

No one's come. He's made a gradual shift from people-watching to staring into space, and the floorboards are beginning to lose their allure. It's late. For all he'd told himself this was pointless, he hadn't really believed that was true—he hadn't really expected to have to wait this long. It feels like a very long time.

He's toyed with the idea of leaving, silently agreed with himself that he ought to, even, but he won't. He can't just go—not back to the apartment—not just yet.

It's 10:52 now—in two more hours, he'll go home.

In exactly two hours, he'll go home.

Exactly two.

_"Dig through the ditches, and burn through the witches, and slam in the back of my dragula..."_

Eleven o'clock and there's someone coming up behind him from the crowd.

Neo looks over his shoulder, slowly, unsure this has anything to do with him at all—and finds himself regarding a woman in a black dress, scanning him with what seems far too much like a personal recognition for his comfort.

He's never seen her before in his life.

"Hello, Neo."

He runs a glance around the club, speaking on reflex, "How do you know that name?"

_Fuck._ He looks away as soon as he says it. That was the wrong answer—wrong answer—wrong answer.

If he'd had any rationale coming into this, he wouldn't have even responded to that—not before they'd spoken—before he even knew who she was. That was stupid. _God damn that was stupid. _

She smirks, "I know a lot about you."

"Who are you?" It comes out more calmly. He relaxes a bit once he sees her willing to answer.

"My name is Trinity."

"Trinity..." He pauses, trying to place that—it's familiar. Something clicks rather quickly and he glances up, "_The_ Trinity? That cracked the IRS d-base?"

"That was a long time ago." If anything, she almost seems embarrassed.

But it was a confirmation.

Neo looks at the floor. That—was—not—what he was expecting, "Jesus..."

"What?"

"I just thought...um...you were a guy..." He keeps his eyes on the ground, beginning to wish he hadn't started that sentence. He'd had an image in his head of "Trinity," and, compared to the woman standing before him now, in her low-cut dress and black boots, it was very—different.

"Most guys do."

Alright, that was fair.

Neo takes a quick, derailed moment and then bypasses it—he can be embarrassed later.

"That was you on my computer. How did you do that?"

Trinity shakes her head, dismissing it, "Right now, all I can tell you is that you're in danger." She steps closer to him and he pulls back, a little unnerved. "I brought you here to warn you."

He swallows and shifts closer to the wall. "Of what?"

"They're watching you, Neo."

"Who is?"

"Please just listen." She walks up to where she can speak directly into his ear, nearly brushing against his cheek, "I know why you're here, Neo. I know what you've been doing. I know why you hardly sleep, why you live alone, and why, night after night, you sit at your computer."

Neo stands where he is, numbly allowing her proximity. That shouldn't be accurate, and it is. She shouldn't know that.

She goes on and he makes no protest.

"You're looking for him."

Morpheus.

"I know because I was once looking for the same thing. And when he found me...he told me I wasn't really looking for him...I was looking for an answer."

She turns her head against his as she speaks.

"It's the question that drives us, Neo. It's the question that brought you here."

It's only partly registering. The room is still pulsing in a strain of multicolored lights.

"You know the question, just as I did."

Neo can barely feel his lips moving as he answers. His face is numb, "What is the Matrix?"

"The answer is out there, Neo. It's looking for you."

_This—must—be—a—dream._

"And it will find you, if you want it to."


	4. Morpheus

**A/N: **Gasp, an update! Sorry this is a bit late, but it's also the longest chapter so far, so I hope that makes up for it.

* * *

**BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP—**

"Shit."

Neo slams his hand down on his alarm clock, only minorly relieved when it stops buzzing. It's 9:18 AM—and it's Monday.

"Oh shit. Shit..."

He shoves the covers away and forces himself out of bed.

_Damn it._

He had been dreaming, though by the time he's dressed and fully awake, he can barely remember the dream at all. It had been something impossibly surreal—a new dream—something he wouldn't have wanted to forget.

It's gone now.

He pours himself a hasty cup of coffee and rushes through the apartment door. This is typical—he halfheartedly runs the first of three blocks to the train station and stops. It's raining. The train will be late either way. He walks the latter two and watches the puddles forming on the ground.

_This is so—very—typical._

It's 9:45 when he gets on and he sits down near the back, picking a spot where he can lean his head against the window. It's not as crowded as it should be. That's a perk, at least.

The rain forms an interminable set of smudges on the glass.

You should know when you're dreaming. It's the sort of thing you should be able to rely on—if nothing else—know whether or not you're awake. The smudges blur the tracks into a single, solid line. Neo watches them drip. It's just something you should know.

And it's really very unnerving—when you don't.

_The answer is out there, Neo. It's looking for you. And it will find you, if you want it to..._

"You have a problem with authority, Mr. Anderson."

Neo stares down at his shoes. He should have known this was coming. It's 10:07 AM by his boss's desktop clock—and he's screwed.

The man behind the desk gives him a look and sighs.

"You believe that you are special, that somehow the rules do not apply to you. Obviously, you are mistaken."

There are two window-wipers on a scaffold outside and every now and then there's a squeak—a long, flat, monotonic squeak—roughly every three seconds. He's counting.

"This company is one of the top software companies in the world, because every single employee understands that they are part of a whole. Thus, if an employee has a problem, the company has a problem."

That phrase—how many times has he heard that phrase?

"The time has come to make a choice, Mr. Anderson."

Neo turns back to the desk, fairly certain he knows all too well what that "choice" might be.

"Either you choose to be at your desk, on time, from this day forth, or you choose to find yourself another job."

And there it was.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Neo sighs. There's really only one way he can respond to that, "Yes, Mr. Rhineheart, perfectly clear," and he takes his leave from the office.

His cubicle is the fifth on the left, four rows in, almost directly in the center. To get to his boss's office from there you'd take a left, go straight for six rows, then another left. To the bathrooms, it's a right, four rows straight, then a left. To the exit, right, straight, right. To the fire exit, left, straight, left, straight, right. The fluorescent lights are always on. The whole room smells like plaster.

It would be fitting if the cubicle looked smaller than usual, more cramped than usual, more claustrophobic than usual—but it doesn't. It looks exactly the same as it did on Friday, and the day before that, and the day before that—exactly the same as it will look tomorrow, assuming he isn't fired. It looks like a cubicle. Neo sits down at his desk and stares at the blank screen of his computer. He doesn't turn it on.

His head aches. There are bits of last night floating in and around his mind, many, in fact. But sorting them into their respective categories of "real" and "dream" is proving to be more difficult than it should. He had spoken it out loud—the question—for the first time, in real life, to another person. He'd said it. He'd been _asked_ to say it. And there had been someone there to hear it. She'd been real in that moment. And, then, had anyone even spoken at all? He has no way to know.

This is all becoming very bizarre.

And at the same time, he's really not sure what he'll do if it all turns out to have been just another dream.

"Thomas Anderson?"

Neo turns to see a delivery boy standing in the doorway, holding a Fed-Ex package and a clipboard in his hand.

"Yeah, that's me." He suppresses a sigh as he says it. Some days he's not sure how happy he is about that.

The clipboard and the delivery are exchanged—the delivery boy gives him a smile, "Have a nice day."

Neo doesn't respond.

He waits until he's alone to turn back to the package. It's light—roughly the size of a manila envelope, cardboard, nothing special—though why anyone would be sending a delivery to his work address is beyond him. He tears the top open with a little interest and slides the contents out into his hand.

It's a phone. A small, black cell phone sitting in the palm of his hand, and—it's—

—ringing.

He jerks it away instinctively, staring at it for a moment before answering the call. That's not supposed to happen—what's left of logic gives a violent protest—that phone had been off.

After another moment, he lifts it up, muttering a shaky, "Hello?" into the mouthpiece, and waits.

"Hello, Neo. Do you know who this is?"

He freezes, pulling down below the wall of his cubicle—suddenly feeling very certain that he does, "Morpheus?"

"Yes."

Neo catches his breath.

_No—no—no, this is insane._

The voice on the phone line continues, "I've been looking for you. I don't know if you're ready to see what I want to show you, but, unfortunately, you and I have run out of time."

Morpheus pauses and Neo closes his eyes, leaning his head against the wall, trying to focus on what the words are actually _saying_ and not just the fact that they're being said. It's more difficult than it should be.

"They're coming for you, Neo, and I don't know what they're going to do."

_They're watching you, Neo._

"Who's coming for me?"

"Stand up and see for yourself."

"What, right _now_?"

The voice takes on a hint of impatience and Neo shudders. "Yes. Now. Do it slowly."

He does, peering over the edge of the wall as Morpheus informs him, "The elevator." They're there. Three heads turn in unison to stare at him.

_I brought you here to warn you._

Neo ducks, falling against his desk in the process, "Oh shit!"

"Yes."

"What the hell do they want from me?" He drops to the ground in the opposite corner as though the movement will hide him better. He can feel his heart rate shoot up. He doesn't bother to sound calm—he's panicking now.

"I don't know, but if you don't want to find out, I suggest you get out of there."

"How?"

"I can guide you, but you must do exactly as I say."

Neo takes a breath, "Okay."

"The cubicle across from you is empty."

He can't possibly know that. The knowledge is coming from thin air.

Neo stammers into the phone, "But—but what if they—"

"Go, _now_!"

And he does—dodging across the hallway just as a series of footsteps round the corner.

The voice comes again over the line, "Stay here for just a moment."

Neo nods, though the gesture is all but pointless, trying to see, without moving, if the men are still standing outside his cubicle door. A few seconds pass and the footsteps move on.

"When I tell you, go to the end of the row, to the office at the end of the hall. Stay as low as you can."

He nods again and waits.

"Go now."

The adrenaline takes over then. It's the same maze through the cubicles he's used every day, to and from, for a good two years—and he still narrowly avoids at least three wrong turns. He locks the office door as soon as he's inside.

He can't help but wonder how many times, in the past two days, he's experienced the cliché of feeling his heart come abruptly to a halt.

"Good. Now, outside there is a scaffold."

Neo turns to the window, and yes—there is a scaffold—just outside. "How do you _know_ all this?"

"We don't have time, Neo. To your left there's a window. Go to it."

The omniscience is getting to be disturbing, but he has no room to argue. The voice waits, unsettlingly, until he's standing at the window before it gives the next command, "Open it."

He does.

"You can use the scaffold to get to the roof."

Neo draws back into the room—this is too much. That was too far. "No way! No way! This is _crazy_!"

"There are two ways out of this building. One is that scaffold. The other is in their custody." The voice doesn't waver or change its tone. "You take a chance either way. I leave it to you."

Neo opens his mouth to protest just as the phone line goes dead. It couldn't have cut off there. _Not then. Not with that._ He stares at it for a moment in disbelief before dropping it to his side. His own voice comes out uselessly, "This is _insane_...why is this happening to me? What'd I do?"

The window is still open as he steps up to the ledge, "I'm nobody. I didn't do anything." A breeze comes through the opening, and he winces.

"I'm gonna die..."

But it's only once he climbs through and allows himself to look down those three-hundred-some feet to the pavement that the thought really hits him.

"Shit!"

He jerks back again, drawing himself against the wall, beginning to hyperventilate. His hands are shaking where he's gripping the window frame. This isn't _fair_.

And even so, in a moment they'll come through the office door.

He allows three seconds to collect himself before he dives back out, clinging to the building as he makes his way around. The scaffold is beyond the corner—now eight feet away—now six—now four. He stops—seizes up and wraps his arm around the subdivider blocking his way. He can't get past it. To get around it he'd—have to—

He looks down.

There's a burst of wind and suddenly the cell phone isn't in his hand anymore—his grip isn't on anything anymore. He throws himself against the building and clings to it, still seeing the vertigo and the hundreds of hundreds of feet to the—

_No._

He's not dead. He takes another breath and waits to register that he is, in fact, still alive. He didn't die. He didn't just die. He shudders and pulls back, edging towards the open window and the way he came out.

It's not worth it. They can arrest him. They can do whatever they want.

"I can't do this."


	5. Arrest

**A/N: **Fifth chapter. Like the fortune cookie scene, this one isn't from the movies either, but I always kind of liked the idea of playing around with what Neo would think of Smith, Jones, and Brown before he actually finds out that they aren't human. Plus Smith doesn't get nearly enough screen time in the first movie, so I figured I'd give him an extra scene.

* * *

They have him in handcuffs, fastened behind his back where he can't even see them. It disturbs him somehow, that he can't see them. He'd like to be able to see what's constraining him. There's really no way to get out of this.

The scaffold doesn't seem half so bad now.

The car hits a pothole and jars forward—Neo stiffens to keep from being slammed into the car door—then the road evens out. The area isn't far from his apartment. It's 11:23 AM.

He'd like it not to be so silent in the car. Though he decides, after a moment, it makes perfect sense. It wouldn't be very fitting if they'd turned on the radio—wouldn't be very official. He tries to find some humor in the image and fails. He tries to think what's going to happen now.

He turns his head to stare out the window.

There were three of them, the feds, all about what you'd expect—black suit, tie, sunglasses—the thin earpiece always associated with the CIA. Two of them had escorted him to the car. The third—he'd concluded—was their boss. Neo takes a moment to wonder what sort of person would actually _want_ a job like this, and glances at one of the three out of the corner of his eye. He quickly gives up on the analysis. You can guess a lot about a person from their facial expression—but the sunglasses block most of that out.

It's ironic, he notes, focusing on the hum of the engine. This had been among his worst fears—one of the worst possible outcomes. He'd been avoiding it for _years_. It was not what he was most afraid of, no, but it was far enough up there to scare the hell out of him anytime it occurred to him in the early hours of the morning. It was enough to make him paranoid—enough to constitute a nightmare. And, still, it had been the last thing on his mind when he woke up this morning. The _last_ thing.

Morpheus had been on the other side of the phone line. Morpheus. He had _spoken_ to him. For all of ten minutes, he'd been more than a figment of cyberspace and his imagination. He can't have finally found him now—today—of all days—less than an hour before his arrest—less than an hour before his whole search was cut off. This can't just be what it was all leading up to. He can't have come that close just to have it _end_.

Why hadn't he gone to the roof?

He finds himself tugging at the handcuffs and makes himself stop—they're not going to come off. He can feel the skin around his wrists already becoming raw. The car makes its way around a corner. It's been twenty-five minutes. He no longer knows where they are.

It takes Neo a try or two to get his voice to work, and once he does, it's another few seconds before he can remember what he'd wanted to say, "Where are you taking me?"

"To a facility."

The answer comes from the passenger seat, and Neo can tell, by the way it was said, that it's all the information he'll get. It's hard to really be annoyed. This is their job, after all, and he's the guy in the back seat of the car, wearing the handcuffs.

Once again it makes perfect sense.

The engine slows and stops just as they pull up next to a building—an unremarkable, brick building. The car doors open and he's pulled out, the same two feds restraining him on either side lest he decide to run. He glances up at them, briefly, before turning back to the ground.

It really is eerie—the way the sunglasses block everything out.

He loses track of the hallways they walk down once inside. They all look the same—plain, white, featureless—just like the cell he's shoved into is essentially plain, white, and featureless. There's a table at the center. Once the handcuffs are removed and he's left alone, he walks over and takes a seat. Whatever's going to happen will happen soon.

There is no clock in the room.

They won't come back right away, he decides, not before he's had some time to sit here, to think about this, to genuinely realize how serious it is and start to panic. It's designed to intimidate him—he can tell. If he's scared, in theory, he'll be more likely to answer their questions. And if they know he'd had any real contact with Morpheus, there are bound to be a lot of questions. He runs a glance around the room. Most likely they'll have records of all his major hacks—all the big stuff. It's enough that he'll be fairly screwed no matter what he says or does. But that said, he isn't going to_ tell_ them anything. Whatever they're trying to do, he decides, it isn't going to work.

He stares down at the tabletop and listens. He can't hear footsteps in the hallway—though he'd rather not think that it's empty. It's worse, somehow, if it's empty. It occurs to him, after a while, that the room might well be soundproofed, and he can't decide whether he prefers that idea or not.

He'd really like it if there were a clock in the room.

He's on the verge of counting seconds in his mind. Half an hour would be his best guess—so far, it's been half an hour. It must be around noon. This whole morning has only just started to register. He leans forward in the chair and waits to hear some sign of life—waits to hear the door.

He'd really like to know how this ends. He'd really like it if he could believe he didn't just pass up his only chance.

He'd really like for someone to come through that door.


	6. Interrogation

**A/N: **Sixth chapter. One of my favorite scenes in the movie...

* * *

"As you can see, we've had our eye on you for some time now, Mr. Anderson."

Neo keeps his head down, looking up across the table only with his eyes, glaring slightly. They couldn't have set this up more perfectly. The door is locked. Two of the feds are standing behind him, one on each side, making it absolutely clear there would be no point in trying anything but compliance. They're probably armed—very probably. The third—the one he'd presumed to be in charge—is sitting opposite him, flipping through a file on every crime he's ever committed in his life. It's all intended to scare him, he's sure. And he's scared. But, for that reason as much as any other, he's decided, that won't win them his cooperation.

His glare becomes a bit more evident as his interrogator goes on.

"It seems that you've been living two lives."

That's not entirely wrong—Neo glances down at the size of his own file, thinking—no, that's accurate.

"In one life you're Thomas A. Anderson, program writer for a respectable software company. You have a social security number, you pay your taxes and you..." –An unreadable pause, ending in a flinch of disgust— "help your landlady carry out her garbage."

Neo stares hard at the tabletop.

"The other life is lived in computers, where you go by the hacker alias, 'Neo,' and are guilty of virtually every computer crime we have a law for."

Another pause. Neo's unsure if he's expected to respond or not, and he keeps his mouth shut. It isn't as though they've said anything he didn't already know. This is all for effect.

"One of these lives has a future. One of them does not."

The interrogator shuts the folder on the last word. For emphasis—Neo decides. For effect.

"I'm going to be as forthcoming as I can be, Mr. Anderson. You're here because we need your help."

The agent removes his sunglasses at that, showing his eyes for the first time. Neo can't tell if the gesture was meant to put him at ease or just unnerve him even more, and he ignores it. He's fairly sure he knows where this is going.

"We know that you've been contacted by a certain individual, a man who calls himself Morpheus."

Neo says nothing.

"Now whatever you think you know about this man is irrelevant. He is considered by many authorities to be the most dangerous man alive."

Another pause. That may or may not be true, but it strikes him as wrong. Neo looks down at the floor, disallowing eye contact. He has no reason to believe what they say. None. That statement could be no more genuine than the interrogator's act of removing his glasses. Even if it wasn't—

_What does that mean?_

If it's a matter of sides then there's no way to tell.

"My colleagues believe that I am wasting my time with you, but I believe you wish to do the right thing."

That was bullshit.

"We're willing to wipe the slate clean, give you a fresh start, and all that we're asking in return is your cooperation in bringing a known terrorist to justice."

That was blatant bullshit.

Neo nods, keeping his tone as even as he can. It isn't hard to make up his mind, "Yeah, wow...that sounds like a pretty good deal."

He leaves a pause—long enough for his response to be accepted—before he goes on.

"But I think I got a better one. How about...I give you the finger." –Doing so has its own, special satisfaction—"And you give me my phone call."

The interrogator glares slightly and Neo glares back, oddly undisturbed by how badly he just worsened this all. If he can't get out of this, he might as well. If he couldn't get to the scaffold he can at least make up for it now.

He watches as the other man puts the sunglasses back on, "Hm...Mr. Anderson, you disappoint me."

"You can't scare me with this Gestapo crap. I know my rights. I want my phone call."

The interrogator continues unperturbed, smirking slightly. It's an odd expression—Neo's not entirely sure what to do with it.

"Tell me, Mr. Anderson, what good is a phone call if you're unable to speak?"

There's an unnerving silence and Neo halts, derailed. That question doesn't even make sense. He shoots a glance behind him, but the other two feds haven't moved. If that was a threat, then someone ought to have—was that a threat? His interrogator is still smirking.

It's like he's waiting for—

Neo looks down, beginning to register the bizarre sensation of skin—crawling—around his mouth.

_Impossible._

It feels like it's melting.

For one horrified moment, he tries to open his mouth and can't. The entire area around it is dissolving. It occurs to him briefly that he might have been drugged, but the idea evaporates as soon as it comes. He doesn't care where this came from. It doesn't matter. His mouth—is sealing—shut.

He throws himself back from the table, hitting the wall and sending his chair sideways onto the floor. _This isn't happening._ He reaches his hands up and hits smooth flesh where his mouth should be. _This isn't happening. This isn't happening._

Sets of hands grab him on either side. He can feel them slamming him down on the table—tearing open his shirt. He pushes against them, too panicked to be more than half-aware of exactly what they're doing. He keeps struggling until they force him to lie still.

"You're going to help us, Mr. Anderson, whether you want to or not."

The interrogator is standing over him, holding something up, something metal. The something moves and Neo draws back against the table, watching it sprout a nightmarish set of insect-limbs as it's dropped onto his chest.

He can't scream.

The thing makes its way across his skin and stops at his stomach, pressing into his flesh. It's trying to go _into_ him. He can feel it going _inside_ of him. He thrashes hysterically and is held down, watching as the something disappears and burrows in. And then it's—_no._

_No—no—no—no—_

—the restraint is gone and he jolts up screaming—in bed.

In bed.

He's at home—in bed.

He takes another moment to be sure of where he is before collapsing back onto the mattress, still breathing hard. This is—his apartment. And that—was a dream. _It was a dream._ He can hear thunder and rain hitting the sides of the roof outside.

God damn. It must be two o'clock in the morning.

He almost laughs, getting that sense of faint euphoria that always comes with finding a nightmare false and all appendages intact. _That was a really—bad—dream._

_That was—_

The phone rings.

He sits up again, staring at it—feeling slightly nauseous as he gets off the bed and makes his way across the room. This is still part of the dream. He hasn't woken up yet. He's still dreaming and impossibilities are still fair game.

He picks up on the third ring. He lets the other voice speak first.

"This line is tapped so I must be brief. They got to you first, but they underestimated how important you are. If they knew what I know, you'd probably be dead."

Neo presses the receiver harder against his face.

"What are you talking about? What—" He breaks off, unsure how to even form this into one question, "What is happening to me?"

"You are the One, Neo."

Neo is silent, gaining nothing from that answer.

Morpheus goes on. "You see, you may have spent the last few years looking for me, but I've spent my entire life looking for you."

The idea is almost too bizarre to be unnerving. Why would he—? Why would anyone—? He lets it go.

"Now do you still want to meet?"

Neo hesitates—he knows the answer to that—his mind has been made up for a while now. But the immediacy is disturbing.

"Yes."

"Then go to the Adams Street Bridge."

There's a click as the phone line goes dead. He holds the receiver to his ear until the dial-tone kicks in, then drops it back onto its cradle. He's really going to do this—really—right now. He can't help the feeling of vertigo as he grabs a jacket and heads for the door. The entire day is still caught in this tailspin.

He can hardly say how much of the "day" even happened.

This could be what it feels like to lose your mind.

It's a ten-minute walk to the bridge. Neo shoots a glance in the direction of the clock before walking through the door. It's around two o'clock—he was right.

It's 2:18 in the morning.


	7. Getaway Car

**A/N: **I'm back! After three months. I'm really sorry about the complete lack of updates...I'll work on that. According to the movie, this scene should end when Trinity throws the bug out of the car, but I added a little more dialogue after that. It's not that much longer, but yeah...tell me what you think.

* * *

It's pouring. Neo stands at the edge of the sidewalk, staring out at the makeshift waterfall streaming from the top of the bridge—shivering slightly. The entire city is obscured. He can just make out the streetlights for the next block and a half before they start to disappear. It's 2:32. It's cold. He watches the reflection of the car's headlights for a moment before the real thing stops beside him on the road.

The door pops open.

"Get in."

_Get in. _There's a moment of silence as he locks eyes with the one person he had and had not expected to see. He'd almost stopped believing she existed—and maybe that's why it makes the most sense that it's Trinity gazing out at him from the shadows inside the car. That's what this all is—one big dream.

He gets in.

Trinity slides over to make room for him in the back seat and he pulls the door shut, turning around just in time to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun. The car starts moving. Oh god—could there have been a stupider move than what he'd just done?

"What the hell is this?"

Trinity responds before he can react further, "It's necessary, Neo, for our protection."

He keeps his eyes on the gun, "From what?"

"From you."

There's a bolt of lightning outside, and for a moment all their faces are lit up in the dark. Neo turns to glance sideways at the woman next to him, but gets no more of an answer, and it's the holder of the gun who speaks next.

"Take off your shirt."

"What?"

He stares at her as she says it, allowing visions of everything from rape to murder to run at blinding speed through his mind. He's going to be _killed_. The face behind the gun turns toward the driver, then, "Stop the car."

Neo jolts forward as they screech to a halt.

"Listen to me, coppertop," she holds the gun steady as she continues, thoroughly unimpressed, "We don't have time for twenty-questions. Right now, there's only one rule: our way, or the highway."

Neo glances at Trinity once more before deciding, popping the door open and stepping out, "Fine." The rain is that much louder once he's got one foot on the street.

Trinity grabs him by the arm, "Please, Neo, you have to trust me."

He shoots her a look. No—no he _doesn't_ have to trust her—she lured him into a car and let her buddy pull a gun on him—there ought to be no trust here. And still, he stops. He'll wait. He won't stay, but he'll wait—just for a moment, just long enough to hear what she has to say. He delivers a sharp, "Why?" as he sinks back into his seat.

He can't think what to do with the look she gives him then.

"Because you have been down there, Neo. You know that road."

She watches as he turns away to stare into the concrete and the streetlights and the rain—just for a moment.

"You know exactly where it ends."

He hesitates, still holding onto the door.

"And I know that's not where you want to be."

She waits for his reaction, silently, seeming to know that she'd said all she needed to say. He has nothing to respond with, and he finds himself gripping the door handle with absolutely no idea how to proceed.

What exactly would he do if he got back out of the car?

He would see headlights disappearing into the fog until they were gone, and he was left alone again under the bridge—he'd watch them go. Then he'd turn, and he'd stall, and he'd start walking too. He would just go—go nowhere—go home. And in the morning the alarm would be ringing.

_Again, and again, and again._

There will be no more chances after this.

And that's all there is. He pulls the door shut, feeling helpless and sick as he hears the soft snap of the latch and Trinity breathing a sigh of relief. He could very well have just committed suicide, and he did it willingly.

Trinity gives the command, "Apoc, lights," and turns towards him, lifting a device from the floor, "Lie back. Lift up your shirt." It looks something like a gun given steroids.

He obeys, halfheartedly, eyeing the steel monstrosity being placed over his chest, "What is that thing?"

"We think you're bugged."

Neo says nothing—trying not to flinch away or start to panic. He can feel the metal pressing into his skin.

"Try and relax."

Three prongs jut out and clamp down around the barrel of the device, and Trinity shoots him a firm look as he jerks back. The woman in the passenger seat is still pointing her gun at him.

He grips the seat as tightly as possible, keeping marginally still. They're debating something over his head—"you're gonna lose it"_—_"no, I'm not"_—_and he's not entirely sure he wants to know what they mean. He's beginning to get the sense of something moving under his flesh.

A half-remembered nightmare occurs to him just as the feeling begins to solidify. _Oh god._

"Clear!"

And that's when it hurts. He rockets backwards, trying not to scream and only half-succeeding. As a kid, he'd liked to take apart old electronics—radios, telephones, VCRs—and once stumbled across the wrong part with a screwdriver. He can still remember the smoky paralysis—being bitten by an electric current gone awry. It's hard to breathe.

Almost before the feeling has passed, he looks up to see a bloody mass of steel shoot into a case at the back of the machine. The thing—and that's what it is, a thing, _the_ thing, the bug—he's seen it before. With men in suits straight out of the nightmare holding it over him, holding him down, sealing his mouth shut.

He screams the moment he gets his voice back, "Jesus Christ, that thing's _real?"_

Trinity shoots him a brusque, confirming look and turns to toss the bloody contents through the window. The other gun is lowered too, and its holder in the passenger seat addresses him then.

"Recognize it?"

Neo nods, breathlessly, and sits up, "What _was_ that?"

"Exactly what you think it was." It's hardly an answer at all.

He gives up and leans against the window, wondering if he isn't about to be sick. He doesn't feel hurt, but he feels like he should be—feels like there ought to be a gaping hole in his stomach—and it's a shock in and of itself to find he's not even bleeding. His sense of reality has gone beyond recall. This is going somewhere, and until he finds out where, he's simply going to sit still and try to come no closer to death than he already has. That seems like a good enough plan for now.

When he's managed to stop shaking, he takes a glance around the car, finally registering it now that no more weapons are pointed in his direction. The woman in front of him has turned back to the road. He studies the back of her head for a moment—he's got no view of her face, but he can see her white and close-cropped hair sticking up behind the headrest in the dark. He can barely see the driver at all. They're both silent as they make their way through the city streets.

Beside him, still, is Trinity, looking nothing like that night in the club. Whatever it means, he's certain now—she does not often wear her low-cut black dress. Right now she's dressed in leather.

He turns towards her, "Where—" and pauses, trying to get full control of his voice before speaking again, "Where are we going?"

She gives him a faint, unreadable smile—he can't say if it's ironical or not, "Don't you know?"

He hesitates. He's sure, in general terms, but if he's expected to know details, the answer is _no_. He offers as much as he's been given, "To see Morpheus?"

Trinity nods—again, that indecipherable look—then back to silence. There's no explanation to follow. The car hits a pothole in the road.

Neo settles back against the door—unhelpful as that was, he has the sense not to ask again. Her answer was deliberately vague. It's two days in counting since the universe turned itself completely upside-down, and he's beginning to wonder if he isn't just going insane. Even the _two days_ is uncertain—he's lost the ability to keep track of time. The rain is still beating on the roof in a rhythm as they come to a halt on the street.


	8. Red Pill

**A/N: **Hey, I'm back from the dead (again). I've been neglecting my stories a lot lately, but hopefully summer vacation will fix that. And a big thank you to everyone who's still reading. To make up for the delay, this chapter is at least three times as long as some of the others : ). Hope you like it. Review if you get the chance.

* * *

It's only Trinity who accompanies him inside. The others left them at the entrance—he doesn't wonder where they went. He's past wondering about details and logic. The checkerboard floor and the spiral staircase make him feel like he's stepped into a Kafka novel and he stays behind his guide. The building is abandoned. It's a massive, crumbling shell on the fringes of the city and he can only imagine why it's necessary to hold this meeting here.

Trinity seems to know where she's going. She walks with her eyes straight ahead and rarely glances back his way—keeps their pace quick. Neo's beginning to get the sense she's deliberately _not_ looking at him, and much as he dismisses it as paranoia, it's making him progressively more nervous. The world seems surreal and hazy. A glance from another person would at least feel concrete. He runs his hand along the railing of the stairwell and wonders that it's even solid—that it doesn't just dissolve under the pressure of his touch. Were the walls to begin melting, he could not honestly claim to feel any shock. It would be fitting. He's almost relieved when they stop by a door and he sees her turn to look him in the eyes.

"This is it."

Neo says nothing. He's too unsure of himself and his surroundings to speak, but he catches her expression. She's almost smiling. It's ironical but not uncomforting, saying y_ou're scared, don't be_—it lasts half a second and it's gone. She glances at the door and Neo follows suit, takes a deep breath. The idea of Morpheus standing just behind it is unnerving at best, and it takes some effort to picture—in a way he's worried the door will simply swing open on an empty room.

"Let me give you one piece of advice."

Trinity is already facing him again. Neo had not been expecting her to say more, and he turns towards her—this bizarre woman in black from the nightclub who's now offering him guidance.

"Be honest," she goes on, "He knows more than you can imagine."

And with that she turns and pushes her way through the double doors, leaving Neo alone with the effect of that last statement. He follows her in. He does not need to be asked to identify the figure by the window. Lightning flashes and the figure is lit. He can make out his face in his mind—ten thousand web articles, newspaper clippings, shoddy photos, and chatroom descriptions—it's still pouring outside and he can hear the rain pounding as the man turns to greet them and smiles.

"At last."

Neo's heart skips a beat—he stays silent. Morpheus strides into the middle of the room, still smiling, clasping his hands behind his back. The trademark sunglasses and trench coat are there. This is a moment straight out of his imagination.

This can only be in his mind.

"Welcome, Neo. As you no doubt have guessed, I am Morpheus."

In the midst of everything Neo can't help the instinctive flinch at hearing the name, 'Neo,' spoken aloud. It takes a moment to remind himself he's past worrying about the law now. He extends his hand numbly, "It's an honor to meet you."

"No," they shake, "The honor is mine."

The tone calls to mind Morpheus's statement an hour before. _You may have spent the past few years looking for me, but I've spent my entire life looking for you._ Neo looks down, much more uncertain than a moment before. Morpheus gestures to a chair.

"Please. Come. Sit."

Neo obeys awkwardly, perching on the edge of the seat lest he need to jump up again. The tension only worsens as Morpheus walks over and pulls the door shut. _He is considered by many authorities to be the most dangerous man alive._ Neo wonders for a moment why he's trusting him.

Morpheus turns back to the room, "I imagine that right now you're feeling a bit like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole."

Neo hesitates, unnerved by the metaphor and its accuracy, "You could say that..."

"I can see it in your eyes."

Neo says nothing.

"You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up. Ironically this is not far from the truth."

Morpheus makes his way around a second chair and Neo looks up, having difficulty meeting his gaze.

"Do you believe in fate, Neo?"

He answers quietly, "No." It's the first question in some time he's had an answer to—and it seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Why not?"

Neo allows his voice to raise a shade or two in volume, "Because I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life."

He notes the irony as he says it—his life has never felt so far out of his control.

Morpheus simply smiles that omniscient smile and takes a seat, "I know _exactly_ what you mean."

He's fingering a small silver case now, procured from somewhere—some side-pocket of his coat—turning it over repeatedly in his hands. Neo watches it. He can see it reflecting the little light in the room like the lenses of those ever-present sunglasses. A wave of perspective hits him then—he's caught the attention of a circle of powerful people, dangerous people—he's in a building filled with a set of them and what they could possibly want with _him_ still has yet to be explained. They shut the door. The door is shut.

"Let me tell you why you're here."

Neo looks up again, surprised. That was not the first time Morpheus had seemed to read his thoughts. He keeps his mouth shut lest the explanation vanish before it comes.

"You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain, but you feel it."

Unexpected—again—accurate.

"You've felt it your entire life—that there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is, but it's there...like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad."

Neo stares—that sense again, just as with Trinity in the club, of the innermost workings of his subconscious being laid out on the table, spoken from the outside. Relieving. Bizarre. Terrifying. The private sphere inside his skull feels violated.

'It is this feeling that has brought you to me."

_You know the question..._

"Do you know what I'm talking about?"

And then he says it out loud—tentatively—he could not withstand being wrong now, "The Matrix?"

The confirmation goes unspoken, "Do you want to know what it is?"

Neo nods, faintly, fighting back a wave of desperation and disbelief. This is the question that's defined his lifetime—the idea that an answer could be so easily passed his way is as disturbing as it is unreal, and he can't think how to respond except by simply giving a nod.

Morpheus goes on, "The Matrix is everywhere. It is all around us—even now, in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window, or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work, when you go to church, when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth."

Neo hesitates, noting the gaping hole in the explanation that's been given, "What truth?"

"That you are a slave, Neo."

Morpheus leans forward in his chair, directing the black orbs of his sunglasses straight at Neo's eyes.

"Like everyone else, you were born into bondage—born into a prison you cannot smell or taste or touch. A prison for your mind."

He leans back again, slowly, allowing Neo time to process the weight of that assertion. Neo is silent. The gaps of information are still present—he's unsure if he's even quite following what's already been said—but the sense of how they will be filled is unnerving. He's thrown himself so far out of his depth. This proximity is maddening. All the unknowns—all the question marks—they're with him in this room.

"Unfortunately no one can be told what the Matrix is," a pause, "You have to see it for yourself."

Relief, disappointment, and confusion—in order—as Morpheus undoes the latch on his silver case.

"This is your last chance."

The case is set aside. Morpheus moves to the edge of his seat to look Neo in the eyes—that bizarre breed of one-sided eye contact he's perfected—displaying both hands in front of him, each closed. His tone softens for a moment. It's earnest.

"After this there is no going back."

He opens his left hand—

"You take the blue pill—the story ends, you wake up in your bed, and believe whatever you want to believe."

—and his right.

"You take the red pill—you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes."

The speech is finished, then, and Morpheus falls silent. The space is filled by the rain still hammering on the windows. Neo stares down at the pills—two perfectly shaped, oblong capsules—thinking of the insanity of this all. Wonderland—two armchairs and a table set in the wreckage of a room, this circle of hackers in black leather and this keyword they all seem to know, this surreal speech, surreal guns, surreal pills from strangers—in the end, none of it matters. His choice was made so long ago. None of it stands up to the horror of the curtain snapping closed, the flow of rainy Mondays and the smell of plaster in the office hall. He reaches forward.

"Remember," Morpheus stops him and he halts, "All I'm offering is the truth. Nothing more."

Neo can briefly catch the other smiling as he takes the red pill and swallows it.

Morpheus stands, "Follow me."

The room he brings them to is cluttered—filled with people and machines and cables. Things start happening in rapid succession.

"Apoc, are we online?"

"Almost."

Neo is unsure what the short dialog means, but the man Morpheus addressed as "Apoc" was the man driving their getaway car not twenty minutes before. He's now perched behind a set of monitors. Neo glances at him and gets a look of recognition in return.

"Time is always against us. Please, take a seat there."

Morpheus guides Neo in the direction of a chair as he speaks. The blonde-haired woman who'd been riding shotgun takes Neo's jacket and allows him to sit down. He can see Trinity standing in the corner. Immediately she begins attaching wires to his arms and neck. He wants to ask her what's happening, sensing she at least won't ignore him if he tries, but he can think of no good way to phrase it. In the end he asks lamely, "You did all this?"

"Mm-hm."

Morpheus turns back towards him, "The pill you took was part of a trace program. It's designed to disrupt your input/output carrier signal so we can pinpoint your location."

Neo hesitates, feeling his lack of context painfully well, "What does that mean?"

"It means buckle your seatbelt, Dorothy, 'cause Kansas is going bye-bye."

The comment came from a smaller man by the door. Neo hadn't seen him coming in and he can't think whether to be annoyed or disturbed by his joke. Everyone else seems to simply ignore it. Neo looks down at the floor and takes a breath, trying to calm himself down. He would be terrified had he not already crossed that point—as it is he's having difficulty sitting still. He's just beginning to focus on the floorboards when something else catches his eye.

A mirror.

He freezes—keeping his gaze fixed on the ground lest he be losing his mind. What he's seeing cannot be real. It's only once he's established it as a trick of the light that he'll let himself turn his head to look—and for a moment nothing happens. There is a spider web of cracks running through the mirror at his side, and that's all it is. The mirror is cracked.

Then one by one the cracks begin to disappear.

He watches as they melt out of existence, trying to bring his mind back to the well-established rules of physics as this happens right in front of his face. Logic does not protest so much as simply stare. The mirror is smooth again—completely smooth. As if it had never been broken.

He throws a glance back over his shoulder, "Did you...?"

No one answers. No one's reacted at all—they're just watching him. Tentatively. _Is this even happening?_ Neo reaches his hand towards the mirror, waiting to feel it hit something solid—something that will reestablish the parameters of reality around him. It gives against his skin. It feels like gelatin. He can feel his hand sinking into it, and when he draws it back it sticks, coating his fingers with the all-color silver of oil in a puddle of water.

Morpheus steps forward, "Have you ever had a dream, Neo, that you were so sure was real?"

Neo stares down at the substance—spreading now, taking over his hand. In one sickening moment he can feel his all ties with the space around him starting to pop out of place. It's the feeling he'd get as a kid at the end of a nightmare, waking up to find the solidity of the world pulling away from him—the stage set collapsing—the blurring of the lines.

"What if you were unable to wake from that dream?"

It's moving up his arm. He can no longer see the skin underneath it—only that translucent liquid, that mirror that's overtaking his flesh.

"How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?"

"This can't be..."

"Be what?" Morpheus observes, a few paces away, "Be real?"

It's up to his shoulder now, making its way under the fabric of his shirt and sinking in. His arm is dissolving—it's melting—he can no longer be sure it's even there. He holds it away from him as if to prevent this non-matter from coming any closer—to keep himself from falling any farther into the vacuum. The others are shouting to each other across the room. He can't register the words. The substance closes around his chest with the feeling of clamping ice against his lungs and he begins to hyperventilate, unaware he's even speaking, "It's cold...it's _cold_..."

It hits his neck and suddenly it's difficult to breathe. He starts to scream. He's no longer in a room, but in a mess of colored shapes and lines and something else behind the seven or eight layers of reality that just fell away. It all begins to liquefy. There's nothing to grab hold of.

And just as he's left all point of reference, he can see the _something_ behind the stage—the components, the structure, the framework—all for a fraction of a second before they melt back into the disarray and cease to matter. The jamming input and the tangle of walls—they peak and then are lost to empty space.


End file.
